Suffer In Silence
by JPsmiles
Summary: What happened after The Theory of Revolution...
1. Chapter 1

Title: Suffer In Silence

Rating: PG-13

Summary: My take on what happened after The Theory of Revolution. (Spoiler Alert)

Warnings: Sappy and Angsty…as always!

He shouldn't have been surprised by how bad he felt. I mean it wasn't as if he hadn't been hit hundreds of times before. An unfortunate part of the job, it was rare for him to go more than a couple of months without the pleasure of getting slugged by some goon.

However, it had been a long time since he was actually beaten; hands tied behind back and defenseless. This time he had been repeatedly slapped, punched, kicked and choked...not your typical day at the office even for a member of the A-Team.

When they reached the beach and were headed toward the rendezvous point, the relief he felt was overwhelming. And when they were told that the townspeople were being held hostage, he would be lying if his first instinct wasn't to follow Burke, Balcom and Sellars into the raft. But when a little boy is looking at you with big, scared eyes and calling you "Mr. Good Guys", leaving wasn't an option.

Adrenaline was an amazing thing. Even after having the you-know-what kicked out of him, he was still able to complete the mission. He even scammed them a plane for the trip home after Stockwell left them high and dry. Sure, he felt the abuse his body had endured, but there wasn't time to stop and think about it. Hannibal would say he was on "the jazz".

Adrenaline was an amazing thing...until it wore off. And now, as he sat on the plane heading back for the states, it had definitely worn off. It hurt just to breathe, and if he moved the wrong way, forget about it!

Feeling Martien's hands around his neck earlier had hit a little too close to home; brought back some memories he had tried to keep hidden. He had been battered worse in the camps, yet he didn't remember it hurting as much. Of course he was 15 years younger and, at that time, the beatings were the least of his troubles. Being a young, blonde haired, blue-eyed "pretty boy", it was a good day if the abuse stopped at a beating. Surface bruises healed; it was the inner damage that never seemed to go away.

He was too young to feel so old. At 35, he wasn't exactly over-the-hill, but living the fugitive life had aged him considerably. He had always thought that by now he would be married with a couple of kids, living in the suburbs, and working a regular 9-to-5 job. Instead he was a fugitive working for a slime ball like Stockwell at a job that was anything but regular. He didn't mean to complain; just because his life turned out different than he had planned, didn't mean it was all bad. Hannibal, Murdock and B.A. were the only family he had ever had, and he wouldn't want to trade them for anything.

He looked around and took in the aftermath of the mission. B.A. was knocked out cold, as was the usual case when Murdock was flying. Hannibal was on the radio trying to calm down an irate Stockwell…unsuccessfully it seemed from his grim expression. And, Frankie sat mindlessly in the back of the plane pining over Bonita. It had been a difficult operation…and it showed on each and every one of them.

He was surprised that nobody had asked him if he was okay yet. Of course, they had been a bit busy earlier what with getting shot at and all. But a simple "hey, Face, you okay?" would have been nice. He knew he was just feeling sorry for himself, but he was hit so many times that his bruises were forming bruises...he figured that earned him the right.

He didn't know why it was bothering him. I mean, it wasn't their fault that he had been used as a human punching bag. And even if they had asked him, he would have lied and told them he was fine. It was hard for him to admit when he was sick or hurt. The joke among the guys was that he would complain for days over a paper cut, but would somehow conveniently manage to forget a gunshot wound. It was an exaggeration, but not a gross one.

It wasn't as if he hid his injuries on purpose, or at least this time he hadn't. He appeared relatively unscathed; the only visible evidence being a swollen lip and faint red palm print across his cheek. Most of the damage done to his torso and shoulder were hidden underneath his black t-shirt; the collar of the olive button-down shirt he wore on top covered the marks around his neck.

He sighed with relief as he felt the plane starting to descend. It wouldn't be long until they were home and he could lie completely still. Home. Funny, but he had never thought of Langley as home before. For the first time, he could actually say he was looking forward to getting back to the house. After all, he had a hot date with a bottle of aspirin and his bed.

He watched B.A. start to awaken with mixed emotions. On one hand, it was good because in his condition there was no way he would be able to help carry the big guy off the plane. On the other hand, B.A. would be mad...especially when he realized that Murdock was flying. A mad B.A. was much like a tornado: unpredictable and dangerous

Much to his surprise, B.A. restricted himself to muttering threats under his breath as they piled into the limo Stockwell had waiting for them. The group rode in silence; too tired to make conversation. He rested his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes. They hit a bump and his injured shoulder slammed against the door. His eyes flew open and he stifled a groan.

The silence persisted until they entered the house and dropped their gear where they stood. As he slowly stumbled toward his room, he heard Hannibal saying something about making sure they got some food and sleep before meeting with Stockwell the next day. He thought about collapsing on the bed, but opted for a quick shower first. As much as he was hurting, smelling his own stench was only adding to the misery.

The pressure of the water hitting his battered body took his breath away at first. Once he had adjusted, however, the warm water seemed to sooth his aching muscles. He gingerly rubbed the soap across his chest and worked his arms up toward his head. Stars danced in front of his eyes as his right arm reached shoulder level; that guard had all but pulled the joint out of the socket while leading him back to his cell.

He stepped out of the shower in front of the mirror and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was glad the glass was fogged over; he really had no desire to see his black-and-blue reflection…feeling it was quite enough.

He shuffled out of the bathroom and over to his bed. Sitting down he made a mental list of what he needed. He needed to get dressed. He needed to get some food in him. But, as the room began to spin around him, he realized he first needed to lie down. He carefully eased himself back on the mattress vowing just to close his eyes for a few moments.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Suffer In Silence

Rating: PG-13

Summary: My take on what happened after The Theory of Revolution. (Spoiler Alert)

Warnings: Sappy and Angsty…as always!

"C'mon Faceman!" B.A. growled, pounding on the door. "We ain't got all day."

When he got no reply, he pounded harder. "We all waitin' on you man!"

Nothing...which meant something wasn't right. B.A. slowly opened the door and entered the dark room. He could see Face laying in the bed, and he became furious.

"You still sleepin' fool?" he demanded, flicking on the light and storming over to the bed. B.A. felt sick at what he saw: Face sprawled out wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and deep bruises practically everywhere else.

Startled by both the light and sound of his angry friend, Face bolted upright. The intensity of the pain in his ribs took him by surprise and he doubled over. B.A. caught him by the shoulders before he hit the floor.

"Oh God," Face gasped, struggling to breathe.

"I'm gonna go get Hannibal," B.A. said, holding Face up by his now trembling shoulders.

"No! I just moved too fast," Face winced, pulling away from B.A. and trying to sit up. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, and I'm Bob Hope," B.A. countered sarcastically. "You ain't okay, man."

"Stockwell here yet?"

"Yeah, just got here. That's why I came to get you."

Face looked up at B.A. "You have to cover for me…tell them I over slept." After all, it wasn't exactly a lie.

B.A. shook his head no. "C'mon B.A.! Just give me a few minutes to get dressed." Face locked eyes with the bigger man. "Please," he implored.

B.A. knew that Face hated showing weakness in front of anybody, especially Stockwell. B.A. grunted, turned his back on Face and walked toward the door. "Ten minutes, Faceman. If you ain't out there in ten minutes…"

"Ten minutes...no problem," Face interrupted. "And thanks," he added before B.A. shut the door after him.

Five minutes later, Face was standing in the middle of the room clad only in a pair of boxers. 'No, I have a definite problem,' Face thought to himself. 'There is no way I'm going to make it in time.'

Bending over to get the boxers on had just about caused him to pass out…he wasn't about to try his luck with a pair of pants. He pulled a robe over his shoulders, careful not to jar the sore one, and slid his feet into some slippers. It wasn't exactly high fashion, but it would have to do.

By the time Face reached the living room he felt lightheaded and weak.

"Nice for you to join us, Lieutenant," Stockwell smirked from across the room.

Face forced a smile. "Just catching up on my beauty sleep." Looking at his friends he added, "sorry to keep you waiting."

Face waited for Stockwell to begin speaking and for the attention to be off of him before attempting to sit down. B.A., however, kept his eyes focused on Face and watched with raised eyebrows as he painfully eased himself down into a chair. Once seated, Face shrugged his shoulders at B.A. as if to say "piece of cake" only to be betrayed by the wince that followed the movement. B.A. rolled his eyes and shook his head before looking away; he had seen enough.

The meeting lasted a little over an hour. It was more like a lecture; Stockwell talked, they listened. Normally, Face would tune out much of what the General said. This time he had actually tried to pay attention; anything to distract himself. Listening to Stockwell was painful enough to do the trick at first. As time wore on, however, it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate.

The meeting ended and Stockwell retreated to his limo, but Face hardly noticed. He broke out in a sweat, as white spots danced in front of his eyes and the room began to tilt at odd angles. It was taking every ounce of energy he had not to fall over. The rest of the team sat around joking and laughing.

"Hey Face, nice of you to dress up for the occasion," Frankie jabbed, referring to the bedroom attire.

Face could hear the guys chuckling and tried to join along...to keep up the act. The only sound that came out of his mouth was a low moan as he slumped back onto the couch.

Murdock was sitting at his side in a second. "Hey, hey...you okay buddy?" he asked.

"Don't...feel…so good," Face stammered, looking over at his best friend and blinking his eyes rapidly trying to get them to focus.

Hannibal sat down on the other side and grabbed his wrist to take a pulse. "Frank, can you get the med kit?" he asked.

"No problem, Johnnie."

Hannibal lowered Face's wrist and put his hand on his forehead. "You pulse is elevated and you feel a bit warm. When's the last time you ate or drank anything?"

Face's eyes were closed and he struggled to stay conscious. "Before...we got on...the plane to come...home."

"Geez, Facey," Murdock said softly, "That was a day and a half ago...no wonder you don't feel good."

Hannibal accepted the med kit from Frankie and started rifling through it. "I want you to chew these sugar tablets." Reaching for a glass of water on the table he said, "You need to drink this...do you think you can sit up?"

Face opened his eyes and nodded, but made no effort to move. B.A. came behind him and gently raised his head. Hannibal held the glass to his lips and Face drank greedily. "You're blood sugar probably dropped too low and I bet you're dehydrated."

"And that ain't all that's wrong with him," B.A. muttered.

"What's that, big guy?" Murdock asked.

"It's just a few bruises, B.A.," Face said weakly.

"There are parts of you that are blacker than me, Faceman!"

"Are you decent underneath that robe?" Hannibal questioned.

Face ignored the question. "Can we please just forget it? All I need is a good meal and some sleep."

"Lieutenant, I asked you a question," Hannibal pressed.

In answer to Hannibal's question, Face untied his robe and let it fall open exposing that which he had hoped to keep hidden.

Murdock gasped, "Oh God, Face."

"Ouch," Frankie muttered.

Face sighed, time to do damage control. "Nothing's broken…it looks worse than it is."

"I'll be the judge of that," Hannibal challenged. "Try and relax…I'm going to check out your ribs."

Face paled and dug his fingers into the leather upholstery of the coach as Hannibal stared probing his torso. Gritting his teeth, Face tried to focus on his breathing as Hannibal's hands travelled upward. He let out an involuntary grunt as fingers prodded the discoloration on his shoulder. Hannibal stopped the examination momentarily and waited for Face to get the pain under control before continuing on. He gently took Face's chin in his hand and turned his head slowly side to side inspecting the marks around his neck.

After what seemed like an eternity to Face, but was probably only a few minutes, Hannibal was satisfied. He sat back and said, "Just because nothing is broken, it doesn't mean you aren't hurt. I knew you had been roughed up a bit, but I had no idea how badly. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because he's a damn fool...that's why," B.A. snarled.

That comment hit him like a slap across the face, and acted in much the same way to clear his senses. Face forced himself up and off the couch and demanded, "I'm a fool for doing my job?

"No, you a fool for not tellin' us you was hurt."

"What did you think was going to happen to me when I got caught...that I'd get invited to a tea party?" Face fired back.

"Face, calm down," Murdock said, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him back down onto the couch.

Face resisted and started backing up, the weight of his friends' staring eyes continuing to push him backwards. "Did you ever stop to think that I might not want to hash out the details?" His hands went instinctively to his bruised throat, "that I might not want to think about…," his words were cut off as he hit the wall. His legs collapsed under him and he slid his body down to the floor. His head hung down and he finished in a small voice, "that I might not want to remember?"

Nobody said a word. They knew Face was injured, but what they hadn't realized was that some of those wounds were years old.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Suffer In Silence

Rating: PG-13

Summary: My take on what happened after The Theory of Revolution. (Spoiler Alert)

Warnings: Sappy and Angsty…as always!

Face lay in bed, eyes closed, but wide awake. Despite his exhaustion, his mind was racing making it impossible to get any sleep.

The familiar sound of chains clinking disrupted his thoughts. When the sound stopped, he opened his eyes to find B.A. peeping his head through the door.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he said looking uncomfortable.

"You didn't...I was up. Come on in."

"You okay? You need anything?"

"Can you keep the others away?" Face joked. "Murdock has been trying to feed me a full meal every 3 minutes, Hannibal has been threatening me with an IV if I don't drink enough, and Frankie keeps bringing me pain pills. I think he's trying to keep me doped up…I must have really scared the poor guy."

"You scared us _all_, Faceman."

"I know, but I'm feeling better," he chuckled, "now that I've been stuffed full of food and drugs. You can go on up to bed…I'll be fine."

"Well, okay then. Good night." B.A. turned toward the door, and then stopped. Not one for apologies, he kept his back to Face and said, "Um…listen…about earlier...I'm sorry 'bout all that 'fool' stuff. I was outta line."

"And I was a bit outta my head," Face retorted lightly. "Let's call it even."

B.A. turned and looked Face in the eye. "So, we cool?"

"Yeah…we're cool. Plus, what you said got me thinking."

"Uh-oh," B.A. teased, taking a seat in the chair next to Face's bed. It was rare for Face to be open with his personal thoughts and was probably a result of the medication lowering his inhibitions. But still, B.A. was eager to get a glimpse inside his friend's head. "Just kidding…about what?"

"You know, when I was a kid in the orphanage, I learned at a very young age to keep my mouth shut. With so many kids to tend to, not many people really cared or even noticed if you were sick. And those that did care, like Father Maghill, had so much on their plate that they didn't have the time. I never wanted to be a burden, so I found it easier to say nothing. Ironically, I think this helped me out by the time I got to Nam. I was already a pro at taking it like a man and keeping it to myself. Hell, we all suffered so much in the camps…"

"Some more than others," B.A. interjected. Face didn't talk about it, but they were aware that he was singled out more than the others.

"Yeah," Face cleared his throat, "but everybody was hurting and talking about it wasn't going to make it go away. I considered myself lucky that I could control my emotions."

"But you know you don't gotta do that anymore…never did have to with us."

"I know B.A., but as they say, old habits die hard. Plus, no matter how sick I get…or how bad I'm hurt, it can never come close to what we already lived through. That's what I realized the other day while I was getting thrown around that cell. I had been there done that, and survived."

"True…but it obviously brought back some old memories. You were hurtin' and we could have helped you through it."

Face looked up at the ceiling, not wanting to make eye contact as he tried to explain. "Crazy at it may seem, the reason I think I have such a hard time admitting that I'm sick or hurt is that I prefer to suffer in silence. It's what I know how to do; it's how I cope…does that make any sense?"

"Nothin' about our lives makes any sense," B.A. said, "but I think I understand where you comin' from."

Face tried to stifle a yawn. It wasn't often that he and B.A. had a chance to talk like this and it was nice. "I guess Frankie's pills are starting to kick in," he said sleepily, his eyelids growing heavy.

"Guess we better call it a night," B.A. said, heading for the door. Once again, he stopped. "Suffer in silence, huh?" Turning back to Face he wore one of his infrequent true smiles. "Next time you get hurt, you think maybe we can come up with some sort of hand signal or secret handshake so the rest of us know what's goin' on?"

Face laughed, than grimaced. "Ow…don't make me laugh," he whined wrapping his arms around his ribs.

B.A. covered his mouth with his hand and closed the door behind him giggling in that high-pitched tone that completely contradicted with his image.

'A secret handshake? B.A. might just be onto something,' Face thought with a smile and then drifted off into a deep sleep.

The next morning…

B.A. was nursing a tall glass of milk at the kitchen table when Frankie came in wearing a perplexed expression. "Man, that Face is one weird dude. Or, maybe I gave Face too many pills last night?"

"What you talkin' about, Frankie?"

"Well…he's lying in bed and making all these weird movements with his hands."

B.A. had a mouth full of milk which he promptly sprayed all over the table.

Frankie looked even more confused as he mumbled his way out of the room to the sound of B.A.'s giggles. "Weird…these guys are all really weird."

The End


End file.
